


Eliminate Danger

by hatebeat



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hatebeat/pseuds/hatebeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pickles comes home after completing his rehab program. Set during Rehabklok.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eliminate Danger

Rehab had been hell. Pickles had fought so hard, at first, because that was his fuckin' nature. When he hated something, he fought back. He couldn't fuckin' help it. Those asshole doctors had poked at some raw wounds, though. Getting replaced by his band... _no_. He couldn't deal with that again. Not again. 

Pickles had never even considered that he might be expendable to his band until Snakes N' Barrels had tried to replace him with that sober fucking _douchebag_. He was the front man of Snakes N' Barrels, but they could still replace him. Sure, he had co-founded Dethklok with Nathan, but he was totally replaceable, wasn't he? They sure wanted him gone when Ofdensen told him he had to go to rehab...

The fact that even those fucking dildo doctors understood that he wasn't important to his band made him realise... He really had to clean up his act, huh?

The doctors prodded at an open wound, and he had no choice but to go along with them. After they dredged up that all of his habits were ones he picked up in order to cope with his brother, and the fact that his dad hated him, and the fact that he would never be good enough for his mom even though she thought everything _Seth_ did was fucking perfect and he was an _ex-con_ for crying out fucking loud, he had felt like nothing but a hollow shell.

Pickles didn't talk about that shit. He might have in the past, maybe. Maybe back when he was in Snakes N' Barrels, back when having emotion at all wasn't just considered gay, maybe back then it would have been easier. But he sure as hell didn't _talk about things_ these days, and the doctors had forced him to. It had taken a lot out of him.

After every session, he felt more and more like he needed to get high, like he needed to drink, but he was locked in that fucking hellhole and they wouldn't let him, and after he'd confessed to everything, he was too weak to fight it anymore.

The withdrawal didn't help all that much, either.

He stayed at rehab until the withdrawal was over, though, and even though he didn't give two shits about anything the doctors said, he knew that for himself, he had to stay clean. For himself, for his band...

He couldn't stand being replaced. Sure, he had lost bands before, but he hadn't even loved Snakes N' Barrels as much as he loved Dethklok. Not that he would admit that out loud, ever. Nate would definitely call him gay for that.

Before rehab, there were occasionally days when he would stay sober. Not often, but they happened. When they did, he felt strange, shaky, like his heart might come out of his chest or something. He felt that way for a while at rehab, but after the withdrawals ended, he started feeling a lot different. He didn't recognise himself. The person he was while sober was a person he didn't know at all.

When they gave him clearance to leave, he nearly cried. 

And fuck him, but despite everything, all he wanted to do with his new-found freedom was _stop being sober_. But since the withdrawal was over, he had the strength, probably, to go back and prove himself to his bandmates. He wouldn't let them replace him.

On his ride home, he forced himself to keep an eye on the road. Every time he passed a bar or grocery store or anything, he wanted to stop and get a drink! But he wouldn't. He couldn't. Pickles managed to make it all the way home, sober, but he hated himself the whole way.

Had to do it, though. Had to do it for his band.

Klokateers greeted him as soon as he was inside. He could have any of them bring him a drink within seconds if he wanted. But instead, he asked them to take him straight to Charles. He wanted to talk to Charles before he saw any of his bandmates.

Those assholes were the ones who sent him away. He needed to catch up on what had happened while he was gone. A Klokateer took him to Ofdensen's office through a Klokateer's passage, since he wanted privacy. 

"I will retrieve Master Ofdensen momentarily, sire. Please wait here."

Pickles just shrugged and slumped down in the chair across from Ofdensen's desk. It was the band who decided to send them away, but it was ultimately Charles' decision. Pickles realised, just then, just as he was sitting in that chair, that he was incredibly angry at Charles. Inexplicably so.

When Charles finally came into his office, Pickles didn't look up, just stared at the top of Charles' desk. Charles sat down across from him.

"Welcome back, Pickles. I trust that, uh, rehab went well."

Anger came bubbling up from his chest, but he swallowed it down forcefully. 

"Yeah."

"You, uh, wanted to see me, did you?" Charles asked, sounding awkward. Pickles found that he wanted to punch him.

To be honest, Pickles wasn't entirely sure why he wanted to see Charles first. Some kind of consolation, maybe. Some kind of reassurance. He wanted Charles to tell him that everything would be okay, and things would go back to normal. He wanted Charles to tell him he had done a good job by finishing his rehab program. He wanted Charles to acknowledge the fact that he had seen something through to the end, because nobody had ever acknowledged anything he accomplished!

He wanted Charles to acknowledge the fact that Pickles had stuck it out, even though he didn't want to do it.

He wanted Charles to be proud of him.

He swallowed all that down, because he knew he wasn't going to get any of that from Charles fucking Ofdensen.

"So, uh, how's the band?" Pickles asked, lamely. 

Charles raised an eyebrow. "They're doing fine, Pickles. They're preparing for the Sydney show we have coming up. If you wanted to ask that, why didn't you go straight to them?"

Pickles's fingers dug into the ends of his armrests. This was fucking torture. Charles didn't fuckin' get it. Couldn't!

"I'm pissed at you, Ofdensen," he admitted, proud that he kept a lot of the anger out of his voice. "You... you _let_ this happen. You sent me there. It was... it was hell, dude! You don't even know! Don't know what I've _been through_..."

"Pickles, this was all largely for, well, publicity. You know that," Charles hedged.

" _Fuck_ that, dude. You know all about how to deal with publicity, dude. You've saved our asses from every stupid thing we've done, but you couldn't do anything about this? If it was just publicity, you could fucking just _tell_ them I was going to rehab, could have just paid them off or something!" 

Pickles was feeling defensive, wanted to fight. Wanted to break shit. Wanted a drink, but he wasn't supposed to do that anymore, even though everyone else in his band was allowed to.

After Charles didn't answer for a moment, Pickles was about to get up and flip the guy's desk over, but he finally opened his stupid mouth.

"Is that all?" Charles asked.

"What do you _mean_? You really are a robot, aren't you?" Pickles yelled at Charles' unflinching face. "You don't care at all what I've been through! Rehab is _hell_ , dude! They made me, like, _talk_ about shit, you know? Shit I'd never fuckin' _dream_ of talking about while sober, they made me do that shit, and it was hell. And _you're the one_ who put me through this, Ofdensen. You made me do this."

Despite the fact that alcohol and shit generally made him more open with his emotions, he was finding that being completely sober was something like a drug all on its own. He didn't feel like himself, so he didn't really feel in control. He was saying things and feeling things he didn't want to say or feel.

"Pickles," Charles said calmly, "Sure, I could have bought off the media. That sort of thing happens all the time when one of you boys has a, uh, _incident_ , doesn't it?"

Pickles sort of half-shrugged. That wasn't his fuckin' job, worrying about the media. That was why the had Charles. To take care of their incidents. To take care of all of them. That was what he was there for!

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe there was another reason I went along with the band's decision to send you to rehab?" 

Pickles slouched down further in his chair. Fuck this! He felt like he was being questioned by those fucking doctors all over again. He just wanted everyone to leave him the fuck alone! 

"I dunno. Majority rules and all that bullshit," Pickles muttered. "You always do that shit." Except it usually worked out in his favor, because they were usually acting as the majority against Murderface or something. Usually the majority wasn't acting against Pickles! He thought he was important to Dethklok...

Wasn't so sure anymore, though.

"Pickles, I was, ah. Well. Worried. About you."

Pickles stared at Charles in disbelief. He wanted to feel touched, but had this guy lost his mind or something?!

"Do you _know_ like... how long I've been drinking and shit? How long I've been getting high? Because dude, I don't. 'Cause I've been doing it longer than I can remember. Why the _fuck_ would you get worried all of a sudden?"

"Pickles, you almost _died_ in Mozambique," Charles said flatly. "You, ah, you do realise that, right?"

"How many times do I have to tell you, it was a technical malfunction!" He was completely exasperated. Why did these people _not understand?_

"The hover drums weren't really the part that concerned me. I had a team on you right away. It was your toxicology report, your injuries... Pickles, you realise you're not a teenager anymore, right?"

Pickles' first response was to lash out, but at the same time, it was kind of funny.

"Dude, are you... are you calling me old?" Pickles asked, almost amused despite everything.

"I don't think that was exactly the word that came out of my mouth, but, well, I thought that you might, ah, benefit from starting to take a little better care of yourself. And perhaps, ah, working through some of your, well. Issues. Well, that is part of taking care of yourself."

Pickles couldn't help but smirk a little bit. "So you were worried about me."

"So it would seem."

"And you wanted to take care of me."

"That is my job, after all," Charles admitted, adjusting his glasses.

Pickles couldn't help it. Someone had actually given a shit about him, and whether or not he wanted to admit it, that was... a pretty damn nice feeling.

"Alright, Ofdensen, but you owe me. Rehab was seriously hell, dude."

"I'm... truly sorry to hear that, Pickles," Charles said, and he really did sound sympathetic for a second. "But now that you're back, well, maybe it's time rejoin your bandmates and focus on preparing for the Sydney gig. You've missed a lot of practice, after all."

This guy was seriously a robot, wasn't he? But Pickles was fucking glad to be home.


End file.
